D R A C O W A R S

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who i write for

star wars

anakin skywalker

obi-wan kenobi

luke skywalker

han solo

poe dameron

din djarin

harry potter

draco malfoy

tom riddle

harry potter

cedric diggory

fred weasley

george weasley

neville longbottom

pirates of the caribbean

will turner

james norrington

the rings of power

halbrand / annatar / sauron

elrond

isildur

marvel

steve rogers

tony stark

peter parker (mcu & tasm)

dc

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grishaverse

kaz brekker

outer banks

rafe cameron

jj maybank

stranger things

steve harrington

billy hargrove

game of thrones

jon snow

robb stark

miscellaneous

michael jackson

You watch from your own safety in the shadows beside the stage. For months, you had listened to his voice through a telephone line, imagining where he was, how he looked, wondering if he was eating enough, sleeping enough, smiling enough. Now he was right in front of you, only a few meters away, close enough to finally touch, and he hasn’t the faintest idea that among the 17,000 gazes fixed on him at this moment, yours is one of them. The one gaze that truly matters to him.

He hasn’t noticed you yet, but then again, how could he? For the past one and a half hours, he’s been delivering a performance even better than the one from the previous night. During the short break, you stayed hidden as not to spoil the surprise. At one point, he glanced toward the wings and your heart had nearly stopped. But his eyes swept right past you.

You can’t help but smile as he spins across the stage, his energy somehow endless despite how exhausted he always sounded during your nightly calls. Or morning calls. Or sometimes even afternoon calls.

A sad smile appears on your face when you think about the call from a few nights back.

The phone rings at exactly 10PM and you pick it up with a smile. “Hello?”

For a few seconds, there’s no sound on the other end. “Michael?”

“Hi, applehead”, he greets you over the phone, his soft laugh crackling through the line all the way from Florida.

“Hello, my love”, you reply softly.

“How’d you know it was me?”, he asks innocently and you can hear the smile in his voice. Your mind immediately paints the picture of him in front of you, that bright smile spreading across his face, his eyes sparkling with amusement.

“You call every night at the same time”, you explain. “At least for the last few stops.”

“Not every night.”

“Every night.”

“Okay”, he giggles. “Maybe every night.”

You settle on your couch, tucking your feet underneath you. These calls had become your favourite part of the day. No matter where the Victory Tour took him, he always found a phone. Most nights he sounded exhausted and tonight was no different.

“You okay?”, you ask softly. “The boys doing well?”

A few seconds pass. His answers always take a little longer when you ask about his current state.

“Jus’ tired”, Michael sighs through the phone and you can hear voices somewhere in the background, probably his brothers, and a hotel door closing. The way he says it makes your heart ache, wanting nothing more than to give him a big hug for comfort.

“Bad show?”, you ask even though you know there are no bad shows, not when it concerns Michael Jackson.

“No”, his voice drops lower you can practically see him worrying his lip between his teeth. “Show was fine.”

“But?”

You hear him shift on the other end of the line, contemplating about whether to tell you about whatever it is.

“Nothing. I just got into it with Jermaine earlier”, he admits, his voice sounding entirely too vulnerable for the sake of your own heart.

“Oh, Michael..”

“It wasn’t even anything important”, he mutters, more to himself than to you. “Everybody’s tired. Everybody’s irritated. We just.. get on each other’s nerves.”

Contrary to popular belief, at the end of the day, the Jacksons are still a family like any other, with perfectly normal squabbles between siblings. However, knowing how much Michael hates arguing, especially with the people he loves, makes it immediately clear why he doesn’t sound quite right. Why his voice sounds not only exhausted but also sad and dejected today.

“What happened?”, you encourage him, getting more comfortable in your position on the couch.

“I wanted to change something in rehearsal”, Michael answers, pausing a bit before continuing. “Jermaine didn’t.”

You can’t help but smile a bit at that, knowing full well how stubborn they can be when they want something. Since they are the only two singing their own songs on the tour, you can easily imagine how they clash. “That sounds about right.”

“Mm.”

He’s quiet for a moment, but you can feel that there’s more in the way he’s breathing, in the way he hummed.

“Then Joeseph got involved”, he adds and your absentminded smile immediately disappears. You know exactly what that means.

“Oh.”

“Yeah”, Michael lets out a humourless laugh. “He always has an opinion.”

You lean your head against the couch cushion, trying to imagine it being Michael’s chest.

“What did he say this time?”, you roll your eyes but try to make the whole situation sound a bit more light-hearted. There’s at least another minute of silence until Michael finally speaks again, fighting with himself because he’s not used to voicing his complaints aloud. He was always taught that he had no say in any matter and certainly not against his father.

“Said I complain too much”, his voice is small as he says it, almost a whisper, which make the words hit you even harder. Mixed with the compassion washing over you is a sense of anger at the injustice of it all. Because you know how hard Michael works. You know he spends hours perfecting every step, every note, every detail. You know he hadn’t even wanted to do this tour in the first place.

You know he is the reason the stadiums are sold out. His brothers know it. His father knows it. Which is why his father’s plan would never have worked without Michael.

He owes absolutely nothing to these people who are supposed to be his family and should be there to catch him when he falls, not stomp him further into the ground.

“You don’t complain too much”, you tell him, firmly. You believe it with your whole heart because this man never even learned how to complain.

“No?”

His question, seeking reassurance, makes your heart pound painfully; he sounds like a small child momentarily finding a glimmer of hope.

“No”, you repeat vehemently. “You’re exhausted. You’ve been rehearsing for months on end. You barely sleep. And you never wanted to do this tour.”

The line grows so quiet that for a moment you wonder if he’s put the phone away. Then you hear him exhale, slowly and shakily.

“Sometimes I feel bad for saying that”, he admits and you know that it took all his willpower to say that out loud right now.

“You shouldn’t. You do not have to feel bad about anything, my love”, you say softly, the nickname falling easily off your lips.

“I just..”, he struggles to find the right words, sounds of him adjusting on the pillows following his voice. “I wanted to be working on my own music. I wanted to create. Instead, I’m living out of suitcases and argue with people every day.”

“I know”, you say, your chest incredibly tight. You mean it, you do know. You had already talked about it a thousand times before he set off on tour. You discussed it often over the phone, too. He loves his family so much that he would do anything for them, even when, at times, they don’t deserve it.

Michael’s heart is simply too big for this world.

“I sound ungrateful.”

“You don’t.”

“I do.”

“You really don’t”, you smile sadly to yourself. “You sound tired.”

Another long silence follows and you don’t know if your words were able to comfort him or whether they fell on deaf ears.

“I wish you were here”, Michael says quietly and you close your eyes, trying to not get emotional.

“Michael..”

“I mean it”, his voice softens. “I keep looking into the audience.”

Your heart skips a beat. He wants you to ask him to elaborate, his very own way of flirting.

“And?”

“And you’re never there”, he tells you, sounding like he’s pouting. You don’t trust yourself to speak because you would love to be there, for every step of the tour, but you’re needed here.

“I love my fans”, Michael continues. “I love performing. But every night I look out there and think maybe you’ll somehow be in the crowd.”

“That’s so sweet”, you gush, twirling the cord of the phone around your index finger.

“It’s true”, he says with so much sincerity in his voice that it makes your stomach flutter. Then, suddenly, he giggles. Really giggles like he can’t stop. You want to join in and know what all the fun is about.

“What?”

“You know what happened today?”, he asks, feeling much more enthusiastic and awake all of a sudden.

“What happened?”

“There was this little girl outside the hotel”, he starts and your smile immediately returns as well.

“What about her?”

“She couldn’t have been older than six. And she had this stuffed bunny”, he explains and giggles in between as he thinks back to earlier today, trying to stay composed to get the story across. “She marched right up to me and said, with a lot of confidence for such a little girl, ‘Mr. Jackson, my bunny wants to meet your llama.’”

You burst out laughing, joining in Michael’s laughter. “No, she didn’t”, you say in between laughter.

“When I tell you she did, applehead!”, he insists. “Then she asked if the llama sleeps in the house.”

You can practically see the grin on his face, his positive energy vibrating through the line. If he could, he would have probably get the girl on a plane right away and show her himself.

“What did you tell her?”

“Told her Louie has better manners than my brothers.”

You laugh so hard that the phone nearly slips from your hand. Quickly, you wedge it between your shoulder and your ear so you can wrap an arm around your stomach, which is already aching from laughing so much. Michael joins in, his laughter warm and contagious.

For the first time all evening, or more like night for him, the heaviness in his voice begins to disappear. When the laughter finally dies down, he sighs contentedly.“I knew that story would make you laugh”, he grins, so happy with himself.

“You only called to tell me that, didn’t you?”, you tease.

“Maybe”, he chuckles. “And to hear your beautiful voice.”

“Always the charmer”, you tsk, shaking your head but the blush that creeps onto your cheeks is evidence enough of what he does to you. A comfortable silence settles between you for a moment, just enjoying each other’s quiet company even kilometres apart.

“How was work?”, he asks after a while, making you smile. No matter how tired he was, he always made sure to ask.

“It was busy, as usual”, you say. There’s so much happening each and every day that you can’t tell what you already told him and what you didn’t.

You hear him chuckle softly. “How are your kids?”

Your kids. That’s what he calls the children on your ward. Not the patients. Not the children. Your kids.

“We had a little boy come in today with a broken arm”, you say, grabbing a blanket from the other side of the couch to drape over your bare legs.

“Oh no, poor kid”, Michael coos.

“He was more upset about missing baseball practice than the actual broken arm though”, you tell him, smiling as you think back to his stubborn little face. “Told me to tell his mom that he can start practicing again tomorrow.”

Michael laughs at that. “A very brave little soldier.”

“A stubborn one”, you add. “And Lucy asked about you again.”

“She did?”, he asks excitedly and you can hear the sudden shift in his voice. The tiredness that had weighed on him only moments before seems to disappear, replaced by genuine curiosity. You hum in response. The six-year-old cancer patient had become one of Michael’s favourite topics over the past few weeks. The first time he visited, he fell head over heels for her and vice versa. She had been shy at first, hiding behind you while sneaking curious glances at him, but within minutes she had him sitting on the floor beside her, listening to every story she wanted to tell him. Now, whenever he called, he always asked about her.

“What’d she say?”, he asks, shifting somewhere on the other end of the line. You imagine him sitting on the edge of his hotel bed, one leg tucked underneath him, his curls falling into his face as he listens intently.

“She wanted to know when you’ll visit her again. She also informed me that when I see you again, I’m supposed to tell you she wants a pony”, you tell him in all seriousness, because that’s exactly how she delivered the request to you, as if asking for a pony from Michael Jackson was the most normal thing in the world.

“A pony?”, Michael repeats, then softly snorts. God, how badly you wish you could see his smile right now.

“Her exact words”, you say, laughing. There is a pause and you hear him hum thoughtfully. Knowing Michael, you can practically picture the expression on his face. The way he tilts his head when he’s considering something. The way his eyebrows pull together slightly as if he’s seriously weighing the possibility.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“Michael!”

“What?”, he asks innocently.

“Don’t encourage her”, you laugh harder, knowing he would do anything for these kids, that no amount of money could stop him to make their days at least a little bit better. If he could somehow make those children smile, if he could give them even one moment where they forgot about hospitals and treatments and everything they were fighting through, he would find a way. That was just who he was.

He had already done so much for the children’s ward, more than enough. The donations alone had made a tremendous difference, things he never had to do but did anyway because he cared. But money was never the part that mattered most to him. He still stops by at least once a week to talk to your children, bring them gifts, or play with them. And somehow, despite the fact that thousands of people wanted his attention every day, he always remembered their names.

“How’s she doing?”, he asks eventually, his voice soft as he utters the question so carefully. The concern is more than evident in the way he says it.

“Better”, you reply and immediately hear him release a quiet breath. The relief in his voice warms your heart. You continue telling him about your day. The funny things the children said, the little arguments they had, the moments that made you laugh despite how difficult your job could be. Every time you hear his laughter through the phone, you feel a strange mixture of happiness and sadness.

His laugh is your favourite sound in the entire world. But you miss hearing it beside you. You miss seeing his smile instead of imagining it. You miss being able to reach out and touch him. You miss him so much it hurts and the tour is still far from over. In other words, it will be a while before you see each other again. Thinking about it makes your eyes sting.

At some point during your call, he starts humming a song. Since you don’t recognize the melody, you assume it’s something new he’s working on. You don’t say anything and just listen to his angelic voice. There is something so peaceful about hearing him sing when he doesn’t think anyone is judging him, simply happy not to be closely scrutinized in your presence.

You smile to yourself as his humming fills the silence between you, an idea slowly occurring to you. You don’t know if you can actually make it happen. You don’t know how you’ll manage your shifts or convince anyone to cover for you. But the thought of going even longer without seeing him feels impossible, making you feel like you might burst. What you do know, however, is that you can’t stand the thought of him looking into the crowd again and not seeing you.

“Hey, Mike?”, you interrupt his singing softly, your words hanging in the line.

“Yes, my love?”

“I can’t wait to see you perform”, you tell him, breaking into a smile he can’t see while your plan takes shape. You hear him shift and you imagine him sitting up straighter.

“I wish you could”, he murmurs. “You know I would fly you out here in a heartbeat if your schedule allowed it”, he adds gently. “You know that, right?”

“I know”, you whisper, feeling a small pang of guilt. You know he understands, he always does. But you also know he sometimes wishes things were different. “But they need me here.”

“Still doesn’t mean I don’t wish you were here, applehead”, Michael confesses, his genuine words squeezing your heart. You look around your quiet apartment, suddenly very aware of the distance between the two of you. The empty space beside you on the couch. The silence that fills your evenings after the phone call ends.

“I wish I was there too.”

A soft sigh comes through the receiver. Then: “I miss you.”

The honesty in his voice makes your throat tighten. You know Michael doesn’t say things like that lightly. He feels everything deeply, but he doesn’t always let people see it. With you, though, he doesn’t have to hide.

“I miss you too, Mike.”

For a while longer, you talk about everything and nothing. Eventually, his voice starts getting quieter.

“You should sleep, my love”, you tell him, even though you don’t make any move to end the call.

“So should you”, he counters gently, a yawn coming from his end of the line. He needs rest, you both know it. But neither of you wants to be the one to say goodbye because the moment the call ends, the distance comes rushing back. Your apartment becomes quiet again, his hotel room becomes quiet again. All you have left is the memory of each other’s voice.

“I love you, Michael”, you say softly and hear his breath catch slightly, even though you’ve said it countless times before.

“I love you too. Good night, applehead.”

“Good night, my love.”

You missed his voice. Even though you heard his voice every day, you still missed it. The angelic tones floating through the concert hall gave you goosebumps with every song. You followed his every movement, every turn, every spin, and that is why you know exactly which steps he won’t be happy with at all. You hope that your presence makes him forget all that later.

When the last tunes of Billie Jean sound across the stage, the audience erupts, if even possible. Michael smiles brightly at the crowd, breathless and sweaty beneath the bright lights, throwing kisses at his beloved fans. After a few minutes, he disappears backstage with his brothers. The second he is out of your sight, you hurry towards his dressing room, careful to not accidentally bump into him, or one of his brothers, on your way there.

You spot Bill, Michael’s loyal bodyguard, near the dressing rooms, nervously checking his watch. His eyes light up when he spots you.

“There you are!”, he smiles, opening the door for you to help you slip inside. “You’ve got maybe a few more minutes until he’s here.”

You thank him and enter the dressing room, feeling grateful that Bill was able to make all of this possible. He coordinated your long journey here, got you a room at the same hotel, got you inside the venue without any Jackson noticing.

As you step into the room, a strange feeling washes over you. Your ears are still ringing from the thunderous music, the screams of thousands of fans, and the pounding bass that seemed to shake the entire arena. Your heart is still racing, but not because of the concert. Because you are finally about to see Michael again. After weeks of phone calls, of countless nights of hearing the exhaustion in his voice and wishing you could reach through the receiver and hold him. In just a few minutes, you will finally be able to.

The room feels strangely quiet now. The silence almost feels unnatural. Every now and then, a voice passes by in the hallway or a door closes somewhere nearby, making you glance up instinctively. It must be any second now.

You walk over to the large bouquet of white roses and lilies you left there earlier. The flowers are enormous, so when you lift the bouquet, you’re barely able to see over the top. Perfect, that’s exactly the point. You hide behind the bouquet, fighting the urge to laugh at how ridiculous you must look. The plan is quite simple: Michael walks in, sees the flowers, takes them from you, and never expects that the person standing behind them is the same person he’s been wishing would appear every night. Hopefully.

Now all you can do is wait. And try not to let your nerves get the best of you.

Just as Bill predicted, it doesn’t take long before you hear footsteps and laughter heading toward the door this time. Your stomach makes a flip as you hear familiar voices. You quickly adjust your grip on the bouquet and move into position just in time for the dressing room door to open. In walk the Jackson 5, Jackie being the first to enter. The atmosphere in the room shifts instantly as they all come streaming in, their energy filling the room with a mixture of post-show excitement and exhaustion. You steal a glance past the bouquet and spot Michael entering the room at that very moment.

He’s still wearing pieces of his stage outfit, his hair slightly damp from the performance, his shoulders carrying the weight of the night. As you look at him, you almost forget to hide. Quickly, you duck back behind the bouquet before he can notice you.

Michael, whose brothers seem completely oblivious to the fact that someone else is in the room, notices your legs sticking out from behind the massive bouquet. He frowns and walks toward you, unaware of who is hiding behind it.

“Someone sent flowers?”, he asks, his voice rough and strained from hours of singing, assuming you are just another staff member delivering a gift. Immediately, without wanting to, he feels bad hat there’s only one bouquet and not more for his brothers as well. He leans forward, reaching for the small card attached to the bouquet. When he reads the words ‘For my love’, his breath catches in his throat, his hand stills. Thousands of thoughts rush through his mind all at once, thinking how sweet it is of you to send him flowers. Even from miles away, even with your own busy schedule, you somehow found a way to remind him that you were thinking of him.

A small smile almost pulls at his lips, but then something catches his attention. The handwriting, your handwriting. His smile fades slightly and his heart skips a beat. That can’t be, right?

He shakes his head slightly, almost as if he can physically push the thought away. Don’t get your hopes up, Michael. That would be impossible: You are in Los Angeles, you have work. You couldn’t just be here.

He refuses to let himself believe it because the disappointment would hurt too much.

For a moment, he doesn’t move and the entire room seems to go quiet. Then, finally, you lower the bouquet just enough for him to see you.

“You were amazing out there”, you whisper, handing him the flowers. Michael freezes, his eyes widening. For a second, he simply stares at you. At the person he has spent every night wishing he could hold, the person whose voice has been the only thing making the long days on tour feel easier.

His brothers are just as shocked to see you. As are his sisters and parents who you only now notice standing there, watching the reunion unfold with surprised expressions.

Michael’s mind can’t quite process what he is seeing, what is happening. He feels like he must be dreaming. Because how else could you be standing right in front of him? How else could he see your smile, hear your voice, feel the warmth of your presence after weeks of only having a telephone line between you? He’s afraid to blink. Afraid that if he does, you’ll turn into nothing more than wishful thinking, that you’ll disappear. A dream his tired mind created because he missed you too much.

His lips part, but no sound comes out. You softly smile at him and that is what finally breaks him. The exhaustion, the stress, the arguments with his family, the weeks of missing you, all of it disappears at once as he pulls you into a bone-crushing hug, the bouquet still tightly in his grip.

“You’re here?”, it’s barely more than a whisper against your hair. The words are filled with so much disbelief, so much emotion, that your heart aches and you smile against him as you say: “I’m here.”

For a long moment, neither of you moves, just basking in each other’s presence after being separated for so long. Michael buries his face against your shoulder, taking a slow, shaky breath.

You’re here. Not on the other end of a telephone line, not in his imagination, but actually here. In his arms. His fingers curl into the fabric of your blouse. He buries his face in the crook of your neck and inhales. Your perfume, the familiar warmth of your skin. You.

For weeks, he’d gone to sleep with nothing but your voice lingering in his ears after your phone calls. Now you’re standing in his arms, close enough that he can feel your heartbeat against his chest.

“You..”, he starts, his voice breaking. “You’re really here.”

“I thought I’d surprise you”, you say shyly and a breathless laugh escapes him. He reluctantly pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes glassy. The tears don’t fall, but they’re there, shimmering under the surface. He blinks several times, willing them away because he doesn’t want to show this side to his family. They’ve seen him cry enough times.

“You flew to New York?”, he asks, still in disbelief.

“I did.”

“When?”

“This morning”, you explain and reach up to brush a damp curl away from his forehead before letting your hand settle against his cheek. Your soft touch almost makes him whimper, his sweaty skin hot beneath your palm.

“This morning?”, his eyebrows shoot up. “H-How?”

“Airplane.”

Michael lets out a watery laugh. “I know that, applehead.”

His hands are still on your arms, almost as if he needs the constant reassurance that you’re real and not just an evil trick of his mind.

“I meant.. How did you.. Why didn’t you tell me?”, he shakes his head, still trying to make sense of it all. “I would’ve paid for the tickets.”

“Then it wouldn’t have been a surprise, my love”, you giggle, gently caressing his cheek with your thumb. He leans into your hand before he even realizes he’s doing it. He simply stares at you, his mind still refusing to catch up. Every night he’d imagined seeing you in the audience. Every night he’d told himself to stop wishing for something impossible. And yet here you were.

“The kids”, he croaks almost instinctively, his expression changing instantly. “They’re okay, aren’t they?”

You can’t help but smile at that because of course that would be his first concern, always putting others before himself.

“They’re okay.”

“But what about your shifts-”

“I found people to cover them”, you explain, seeing how the realization slowly hits Michael.

“For how long?”

“A few days.”

“A few..”, Michael searches your face with so much adoration in his eyes. “You actually arranged all of that?”

For me? is the unspoken end of his question. His throat tightens when you nod with that sweet smile of yours that he loves so much. He can’t remember the last time someone rearranged their entire life simply because they wanted to see him. Not Michael Jackson, global superstar. But Michael. Just Michael.

His chest tightens so painfully he has to look away, his eyes stinging. He tips his head back ever so slightly, pretending to look toward the ceiling as he blinks hard. Quietly, he sets the bouquet down on the table beside him. The moment his hands are free, they find you again. He laces his fingers through yours, squeezing gently before bringing your joined hands against his chest, directly over the frantic beat of his heart.

“You shouldn’t have..”, he murmurs, almost looking guilty now. He doesn’t understand why anyone would go to such lengths simply for him. You step closer until there’s hardly any space left between you.

“Michael”, you gently cradle his face again, your thumb brushing beneath his eye. “I couldn’t spend another day without you. I had to see you.”

He looks away, hating how you can read every emotion on his face with such ease.

“I know you’ve been carrying everything on your shoulders because you think that’s what everyone expects from you”, you whisper, careful so no one hears. “So don’t you dare feel guilty because I wanted to spend a few days reminding you that you don’t have to carry it alone.”

His eyes finally overflow at your words. It’s just one tear that slips down his cheek before he can stop it and, almost immediately, he wipes it away, hoping no one noticed. Unfortunately for him, Janet notices anyway. She smiles quietly from across the room but politely looks away. You pretend not to have seen it while Michael laughs through his emotion, embarrassed.

“I’m making a fool of myself”, he whispers, letting out another shaky breath as he softly plants a kiss on the back of your hand.

“You are not”, you say softly.

“I’ve just.. missed you so much”, he admits, overwhelmed by all the emotions.

“I know. I’ve missed you too.”

He rests his forehead against yours, closing his eyes as he inhales your familiar scent. “You actually saw the performance? You were in the audience?”

“Saw all of it”, you smile cheekily, your own eyes burning now.

“I can’t believe I didn’t notice you”, he says, shaking his head at himself. His brows knit together, genuine disappointment settling across his features. As if, somehow, he thinks he should have sensed you were there. You can’t blame him, though. He’d been so focused on giving every person in that arena the performance they deserved that there was no room left to notice one face hidden in the shadows. The fact that he is standing here, smiling at you despite the exhaustion etched into every line of his face, feels like a miracle in itself.

“So, are you two done pretending we don’t exist or?”, Marlon interrupts your moment with a wide grin, breaking the spell you two were under. A laugh ripples through the room, everyone laughing. Everyone except Joseph, of course.

You glance toward him as you greet all the brothers and sisters, his expression unreadable. His arms are crossed tightly over his chest, lips pressed into a thin line. He doesn’t say a word and he doesn’t have to. His expression alone makes abundantly clear that he isn’t thrilled to see you here.

For a brief second, old insecurities threaten to creep into your mind until you feel Michael’s thumb brush absentmindedly over the back of your hand and you remember whose opinion actually matters. You smile politely, hugging Janet.

“I’m so happy you’re here”, she says warmly before stepping back with a knowing smile. “He hasn’t stopped talking about you.”

Michael’s cheeks flush instantly. “That’s.. not true”, he tries to defend himself, but there is no use when he’s in a room full of people who had to hear him talk about you day in, day out.

“It absolutely is”, Randy laughs.

“Every single city. ‘She would’ve loved this restaurant’”, Tito joins in immediately.

“’Do you think she’d like this song?’”, Jackie adds, smirking.

“’I wonder what she’s doing right now’”, Jermaine can’t resist adding and all brothers dissolve into laughter. While you can only grin, Michael lets out the most dramatic groan imaginable before covering his face with both hands. “Oh, come on you guys.”

“You walked right into that one”, Marlon shrugs while laughing.

“You guys make me seem like a love fool.”

“You are”, Randy says without missing a beat.

“I am not!”

“You called her every night”, Jackie points out matter-of-factly.

“Every. Single. Night”, Tito emphasizes.

Michael peeks through his fingers, cheeks flushed a deep pink. “Not my fault you don’t have anyone to call. I missed her.”

The room erupts into laughter and Katherine smiles so fondly it makes your heart melt. “I think it’s lovely”, she says softly.

Michael glances toward his family before clearing his throat. “Would you guys.. uhm..”, he scratches the back of his neck. “Would you mind giving us a minute?”

His brothers immediately exchange knowing smiles.

“No problem, Mickey”, Marlon chuckles, pushing Jermaine out of his chair because he was too comfortable to move. “Just don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

One by one they file out of the dressing room. Katherine gently squeezes your shoulder before following them. Joseph is the last to leave. As he passes, he gives you one lingering look. Cold and disapproving. You hold his gaze without flinching as he walks out without saying a word. The door clicks shut behind him and you let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding.

When you turn to look back at Michael, he’s already staring at you, reaching for your hand as if he’s afraid you’ve vanished while he wasn’t looking. “You really came.”

You giggle, squeezing his hand. “I thought we’d already established that. Yes, Michael. I really came.”

He lets out the softest laugh, sounding like music to your ears. He can’t help himself anymore. Slowly, almost timidly, he closes the last few inches between you. One hand cups your cheek as the other slides gently around your waist. His thumb strokes your skin with heartbreaking tenderness. His eyes search yours, drinking in every feature he’d spent weeks trying to remember from memory alone.

His cheeks are still flushed, whether from the concert, the adrenaline, or simply from having you standing in front of him, you can’t tell. But you’ve never seen him look more beautiful.

His black curls frame his face messily, his dark eyes shining with an emotion he can’t quite hide. Moments ago, he had been larger than life, commanding an entire stadium with every movement. But standing here, with his hand resting against your cheek and that shy, almost disbelieving smile on his lips, he doesn’t look like a superstar. He looks like Michael, your Michael.

“I’ve missed you”, he whispers, the words barely audible. Slowly, he kisses you. So tenderly like he’s been waiting weeks to remember exactly what it feels like. Your fingers curl into the fabric of his jacket as you melt into him.

When he pulls away, he rests his forehead against yours once more.

“I don’t think I’ve been this happy in months”, he admits, caressing your face before pecking your nose. You smile through the tears gathering in your own eyes, not being able to wrap your head around the fact that you are doing this to him, that you are the reason he’s happy. That you’re the reason he wears that beautiful smile on his lips.

“You have no idea what this means to me”, he shakes his head, your noses touching, kissing you again and again and again.

“If it feels anything like what I’m feeling right now, then I think I have a pretty good idea”, you giggle against his mouth, not getting enough of him as you steal another quick kiss. He smiles so brightly it almost hurts to look at.

Your thoughts are racing through your mind, too many at once, too loud. Resting your chin on a pillow, you want nothing more than to scream into it, from the top of your lungs until your throat burns, but you don’t even have the energy for that anymore. There is also no energy left to control the tears now trickling down your cheeks, soaking the fabric. A violent sob shakes your body.

You hate arguing with Jaafar. You don’t even remember why you were fighting or what you were fighting about. Only that somewhere along the way everything became too much. All you know is that you are incredibly, uncontrollably angry – angry at him, angry at the world, and, most importantly, angry at yourself. There is no explanation for your current emotional state, but for now, you have absolutely no desire to move from where you are lying on the bed. You’d rather stay like this for days to come, alone with your thoughts.

You want to disappear.

You feel like a coward, a loser, for running away from your problems like that. Jaafar’s shocked and hurt expression after throwing all those words at him appear in your head, repeating itself as a mental image over and over again. He looked so.. sad.

At least he’s not as weak as you, being able to stand his ground while you are in here, an emotional wreck. Another sob rocks through your body and even more tears flow down your cheeks. Burying your head into the pillow, you try to shut the world out.

Muted sounds drift down the hallway from the kitchen, turning your emotions into a spiralling mess even more. What do you mean Jaafar isn’t as miserable as you right now and instead does something in the kitchen? How can he just go about this day? This is not fair. A bitter knot tightens in your chest. Why isn’t he coming after you? Why isn’t he wrapping you in his arms and telling you everything is going to be okay?

The thought sparks another wave of anger. How dare he leave you here to cry? How dare he not comfort you?

Just as quickly, the anger turns inward, your thoughts turning sour. Because how dare you expect him to comfort you after the way you spoke to him? You don’t deserve his condolences right now. He has every right to be angry. Every right to leave you alone. You deserve-

An unpleasant tugging in your lower abdomen abruptly stops your train of thought and you freeze. All of a sudden, something dawns on you, making your heart beat ten times. Abandoning your earlier plans to stay put, you scramble off the bed so quickly you nearly trip over your own feet, rushing into the adjoining bathroom as though your life depends on it.

It doesn’t take long before you finally have an explanation for your emotional rollercoaster: your period. You stare at the evidence in disbelief before letting out a slow, shaky breath. You feel stupid, incredibly stupid. Of course, you aren’t weak or stupid, and life isn’t actually that unfair; it was just your hormones telling you that! However, the relief of realizing you haven’t completely lost your mind doesn’t last long. Along with the severe cramps (which you only really notice now that you have proof it’s your period), an uneasy feeling rises inside you – a sense of shame and utter embarrassment.

Heat rushes to your face as the reality of what just happened crashes down on you. You yelled at Jaafar for absolutely no reason. Well, maybe it wasn’t for no reason, but it certainly wasn’t as bad as you made it out to be. You’d blown everything wildly out of proportion. That’s bad. Very, very bad. You feel absolutely terrible. Another wave of tears threatens to spill over. You squeeze your eyes shut, forcing yourself to breathe through it.

It’s just your hormones.

You take a few deep breaths and try to calm yourself down, telling yourself that you can handle this. Slowly, you leave the bathroom and approach the bedroom door, opening it just a crack to listen. The sounds from the kitchen haven’t stopped. Water runs from the faucet, plates clink together, a cupboard closes.

You really really don’t want to face Jaafar, especially not now that you know why it escalated like that. Your fault. If it were up to you, you’d just crawl back into bed and stay there for the next few business days and not speak to anyone. Unfortunately, the heating pad you desperately need to make your cramps somewhat bearable is in the kitchen. Which means you have no other choice but to go there. At least not if you want to survive the day.

You sneak toward the kitchen with quiet steps, not wanting to draw any unnecessary attention to yourself, still hoping to somehow escape this whole messy and awkward situation by simply never bringing it up or giving him a chance to mention it. The rational part of your brain tells you that there is, obviously, no way around it, that a confrontation is inevitable. The emotional side, currently in pure survival mode, however, clings to the hope that Jaafar will simply forget about it over the next few hours so that when next time you talk to each other, everything will be back to normal.

It’s wishful thinking. Especially considering it’s Jaafar we’re talking about. Because if there’s one thing you’ve underestimated, it’s just how attentive and impossibly caring he is.

Because when you enter the open-plan kitchen and living area, you are greeted by Jaafar’s broad back.  He’s leaning against the kitchen island, his attention fixed on the stove across from him.

You frown when you notice the kettle sitting on the burner, steaming with hot water. Beside it lies your hot water bottle, uncapped and waiting to be filled. Two ceramic mugs, the ones the two of you painted together a couple of weeks ago, sit side by side on the counter, each already containing a tea bag.

Your heart skips a painful beat and your breath catches. Then, a tiny gasp escapes you before you can stop it. That tiny sound is enough to draw Jaafar’s attention. In an instant, his head snaps in your direction as he straightens. You brace yourself for the hurt that has to be on his face. The disappointment. The frustration. Instead, he’s looking at you with nothing but warmth. Nothing but pure, unconditional love.

The tenderness in his eyes steals the air from your lungs, rendering you speechless. Instinctively, you shrink into yourself, wanting to make yourself as small as possible. After everything you’d said to him, you don’t deserve to be looked at like that. You don’t deserve to be loved like that.

Jaafar, on the other hand, has to physically stop himself from crossing the distance between you and wrap you tightly in his arms, because you certainly look exactly like someone who needs to be held right now: You’re standing half-hidden in the hallway in his hoodie as though you wish you were invisible. His oversized hoodie hangs off your frame, the sleeves swallowing your hands until only the tips of your fingers peek out. Your head is bowed, your gaze fixed firmly on the floor, unable, or unwilling, to meet his eyes. You look like you’re waiting to be scolded for having done something wrong.

Jaafar’s heart aches. God, you’re adorable. You couldn’t look more huggable right now.

“Jaafar..”, you whimper and his name sounds like a question, a prayer, a reprimand and a slap to the face all at once.

You don’t know what to do with all your emotions, feeling too overwhelmed. You were prepared to defend yourself, to tell him you didn’t mean any of what you’ve thrown his way, maybe even get into another fight because he would have said the wrong thing and your hormones would’ve decided to take it personally. What you definitely weren’t prepared for is for your handsome, sweet, impossibly thoughtful, perfect boyfriend to stand there with nothing but love in his eyes, quietly making you a hot water bottle and tea because, for some reason, he’d somehow figured out exactly what was wrong before you had.

You open your mouth to say something, but nothing comes out, like a fish on dry land, and you don’t trust your voice not to crack if it did, so you close your mouth again. Jaafar notices this, of course, and immediately takes the lead.

“I’m making you some herbal tea. Chamomile is supposed to help, I think? And a hot water bottle", he explains, even though you’ve already realized that. “I put your painkillers on the coffee table and filled your water bottle. You need to drink a lot, I know you get a headache otherwise. Oh, and I grabbed your favourite pyjamas from the dryer. They’re on the sofa with your cozy blanket in case you want to get more comfortable. I also left one of my hoodies there, just in case you get cold, though you’re already wearing one of mine.. Either way, I’ve also got your favourite snacks!"

While Jaafar rambles about everything he’s done for you in the last half an hour since your fight, you feel your throat tighten, your heart beating out of your chest. While he’d been worrying about you, you’d been lying in bed convincing yourself he hated you.

You’re asking yourself how you ever deserved this man. How did someone as wonderful as him choose you? And all you did was scream at him.

He’s completely oblivious to the emotional turmoil raging inside of you right now. What he does see, however, is the biggest pout forming on your face, making you look seconds away from falling apart. Your lower lip quivers and that’s what finally causes Jaafar to step in front of you with three quick strides.

“No. Please don’t cry, sweetheart", he says sadly, cupping your cheeks with his large hands, coaxing your gaze up to meet his. The moment his skin touches yours, the first tear slips free. And now, as he gazes at you with such concern and speaks to you so softly, the dam breaks entirely. One tear after the other runs down your cheeks, staining your skin. Jaafar hurriedly wipes them away with his thumbs, only for more to replace them immediately. He looks at each tear like it personally offends him.

“Shh.. I promise I’m not angry with you”, he whispers gently, offering you the gentlest smile he can manage.

“B-But you s-should be”, you full on sob, pausing in between words to catch your breath.

“What? Why?”, Jaafar blinks. There is a hint of amusement in his voice, not because he doesn’t take you seriously, but because he genuinely thinks you look and sound so cute right now.

“Because I y-yelled at you for n-no reason”, you cry, the shame washing over you in full force once more, causing even more tears to fall and your voice to crack. “I was so mean to you.”

“Pfft. Whatever”, he snorts, shaking his head, the casualness of his response making you look up at him through tear-filled eyes. “I know you didn’t mean it.”

To be honest, he’s relieved. Because after you stormed away from him, his mind had immediately gone to the worst possible places. He’d wondered if he’d said something wrong. If he’d pushed too far. If this was it, if this was the day you’d finally realize you were better off without him and leave. That fear always crept in whenever the two of you fought.

Finding out there was an explanation for why everything had escalated so suddenly means he knows you still love him.

“H-How do you..”, you swallow, glancing down at your hands that are still clasped over your lower abdomen. “How do y-you know about..?”

He follows your gaze before looking back at you.

“I have an app”, he states matter-of-factly.

“An app? F-For what?”

“For your cycle”, he helps you and the second the words leave his mouth, he practically sees how they land. Your dramatic pout grows even bigger and before he knows it, your hands wrap around his waist, clinging to him like you’re afraid he’ll disappear.

“I’m s-sorry”, you sob into his chest. Jaafar immediately softens, wrapping both arms around you and pulling you closer. His chin rests gently on top of your head as he sways you back and forth.

“Don’t apologize for something you can’t control, baby”, he murmurs. You shake your head against him.

“But I-“

“No”, he interrupts, gently but firmly. “You were overwhelmed. You were hurting. We sometimes do things we don’t mean to when we’re in pain.”

Your grip around him tightens, sobs leaving your throat.

“Are you in a lot of pain?”, he asks, running a hand gently over your hair, his touch careful and soothing. You nod against him.

“Do you have everything you need? Or do I need to pick something up from the store?”, he offers, now placing his cheek against your head, hating that you’re in pain and he can’t do anything about it.

“I don’t d-deserve you”, you stutter, squeezing him even tighter. At your words, he suddenly loosens his grip around you, pulling back slightly. His hands find your cheeks again, gently guiding your face upward until you’re forced to meet his eyes.

“Don’t stay that”, he scolds you, not liking the way you tend to talk badly about yourself, especially during that week once a month. “You deserve me just as much as I deserve you.”

Your lip trembles, searching his eyes.

“Okay?”

You nod weakly.

“Now, please lie down and rest, baby. Your body is working really hard”, he brushes his thumbs over your cheeks, wiping away the tears that remain.

You open your mouth to argue, wincing as you feel another cramp in your lower abdomen. All of a sudden, Jaafar jumps into full protective mode. He hooks one arm beneath your knees and the other around your back, effortlessly lifting you up bridal style, carrying you to the sofa. Despite everything, a tiny laugh escapes you.

He wasn’t exaggerating. The moment you reach the sofa, you find everything waiting for you: your pyjamas, favourite snacks (a whole lot of them), water bottle, pain relief medication, his hoodie. The sight alone makes you tear up again.

“While you get comfortable, I’ll finish the tea and grab the hot water bottle”, he says, pressing a soft kiss to your cheek before hurrying back to the kitchen, where he slides across the tiles in his socks before coming to a stop. You slip into your pyjamas in no time and pull the hoodie over it, swapping out the one you previously wore. By the time you snuggle under the blanket, Jaafar is back by your side, placing the two mugs on the coffee table, the hot water bottle tucked under his arm. He hands it to you once he’s safely set down the steaming mugs. The moment the warmth settles against your stomach, your entire body relaxes.

Since the tea is still too hot to drink, Jaafar lies down next to you, inviting you to snuggle up to him. You rest your head against his chest and lazily drape an arm across his stomach. His arm wraps snugly around you, fingers tracing patterns along your skin while his other hand keeps the hot water bottle in place.

For a while, neither of you says anything. You just lay there, feeling safe and loved.

“What do you want to watch?”, he asks into your hair eventually, his lips brushing against your hair as he reaches for the remote.

“Mhm... The Princess and the Frog?”, you suggest. A quiet laugh rumbles through Jaafar’s chest. He should have known. But he doesn’t hesitate. He searches for the movie immediately, because he knows exactly how much you love old Disney films, especially when you’re feeling miserable. This one is particularly special because secretly, you love imagining him as the prince.

Lying there with him, surrounded by everything you need, the pain slowly fades into the background. Jaafar makes sure you take your medication, drink your water, that your tea is the perfect temperature before handing it to you.

“What do you want to eat later? I could make your favourite, or I can go grab something. We could order something too. Whatever you want, baby”, Jaafar rambles away until you interrupt him by looking up at him from his chest. He immediately stops when your hand reaches up to cup his jaw, pulling him closer to kiss him softly. The butterflies that flutter through your stomach are enough to distract from the lingering cramps.

“I love you so much”, you whisper against his lips, which brings a smile to his face.

As a rising star in the industry, currently in the spotlight thanks to the incredible success of Michael, Jaafar was invited to the 2026 FIFA World Cup opening match between the US and Paraguay in Los Angeles. Allowed to bring guests along, he not only wanted his brothers, Jermajesty and Randy Jr., by his side, but also you, his girlfriend.

A world cup is a big thing, but nothing could have prepared you for the absolute fear surging through your every vein right now. This isn’t just any event, not just a football game. This is your first public appearance as Jaafar Jackson’s girlfriend. You first time walking a carpet. Your first time standing in front of hundreds of photographers who seem to know exactly who you are, having done their thorough research despite never even seeing you before.

A small part of you thinks that once you step out of this car, everything changes. Because before that moment, you were just you. The girl who got to spend lazy mornings and quiet evenings with Jaafar. The girl who knew every version of him but especially the one that existed away from the cameras. The girl who laughed at his absolutely terrible jokes and stole his hoodies. The girl who danced around with him in the kitchen with no worries in the world.

Today the world is going to get a glimpse of you, the girl Jaafar Jackson chose, who he loves with all of his heart. No pressure.

You feel like prey, just waiting to be devoured by the hungry predators surrounding you.

“Hey, everything alright?”, Jaafar’s gentle voice pulls you out of your spiralling thoughts, and you feel his warm hand on your thigh, giving a gentle squeeze. Slowly, you tear your gaze away from the passing view outside the window and turn toward him. His brown eyes meet yours, warm and steady, carrying that familiar softness you always get lost in.

“Y-Yeah.” Not very convincing.

“You look like you’re about to jump out of the car”, he remarks with a soft smile.

You let out a nervous laugh, glancing down at your hand that you now intertwine with his on your thigh. You avert your gaze again, not being able to stand the pure affection you find in his eyes, meant only for you.

Jaafar has always had a way of seeing through you. It doesn’t matter how carefully you try to hide your emotions, how much effort you put into looking calm and collected. He notices the little things. The way your fingers fidget. The way your breathing changes. The way you stare out the window, letting a storm of thoughts consume you. You really tried to not look overwhelmed and apparently, you terribly failed.

“Sorry”, you shrug with a shy smile, nervously smoothing down your pants with your free hand. Since the dress code isn’t super formal – it is a football match after all – you’re wearing a cream tailored fitted vest and flowing wide-leg trousers. Subtle jewellery adorns your ears, wrists and fingers and black sunglasses tie everything together. Your outfit perfectly complements that of Jaafar, who is wearing a cream button-down shirt with a textured pattern, left slightly open at the collar, paired with matching tailored trousers that give him a relaxed yet polished look. The soft neutral tones compliment his warm complexion, while the dark sunglasses add just enough edge. Jaafar, as always, looks effortlessly put together, which somehow makes it unfair and so much more difficult for you.

He isn’t dressed like he is trying to impress anyone while you, on the other hand, are very much trying to do just that.

His brothers also match the colour scheme, all dressed in cream, white and black. A choice that also subtly signals which team you’re rooting for. That is at least for today, because the three of them are supporting Colombia as well while you are rooting for your country, too.

“Don’t be”, Jaafar says with a slight grin, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “You’re going to do amazing. They’ll love you.”

Easy for him to say. He’s already accustomed to the spotlight, the cameras, the eyes. Everyone loves him. Of course they do. There is nothing to not love about him. But the idea of millions of strangers having opinions about you and your relationship makes your stomach twist in discomfort.

“I just don’t want to mess this up”, you admit quietly.

Jaafar’s eyebrows pull together like he has a hard time understanding what you just said. “Baby..”, he starts and the nickname makes your heart jump. “You’re not going to mess anything up.”

“Unless you trip”, Jermajesty adds out of nowhere, sitting across from you. He had been playing on his phone just moments ago, but the conversation didn’t go past him. Not that he could have missed it, you’re literally sitting right in front of him.

“Bro.”

Randy next to him snorts but quickly regains his composure and jabs his elbow into Jermajesty’s side, being the older, responsible one and all that. Jaafar, on the other hand, shoots his brothers a death glare.

“What? I’m just preparing her for every eventuality. I didn’t say it would happen!”, Jermajesty immediately defends himself, raising his hands in surrender.

“Not helpful.”

“Maybe keep your tips to yourself next time”, Jaafar suggests with a smile so bittersweet it makes his brother swallow hard. It’s a smile that is somehow both amused and threatening enough to make Jermajesty hesitate.

“Nah. I promise if anyone is going to mess it up, it’s going to be me”, Jermajesty says with such confidence as if he has already planned the entire disaster in his head. “Aaaaand I’ll shut up now”, he quickly adds when he receives another death glare, basically jumping headfirst back into his phone.

Despite yourself, you laugh. Somehow, their banter was exactly what you needed. The nerves that had been twisting your stomach begin to loosen. You know that you are not alone. That when you step out of this car, you won’t just have Jaafar beside you. You’ll have people who genuinely want you to feel comfortable, who will stand beside you and make sure you feel safe.

“I got you, baby”, Jaafar whispers softly, guiding your intertwined hands to his mouth to place a gentle kiss on the back of your hand without breaking eye contact. The warmth radiating from him, his touch, his presence, the certainty in his eyes, slowly melts away the tension you’ve been carrying, your shoulders slumping back into the seat. You can’t help but lean over and give him a quick kiss to the cheek, making him smile brightly.

It takes around two more minutes to reach the venue and you immediately tense up again, your breath catching in your throat. With the stadium towering ahead, your gaze falls on the throngs of photographers lining the blue carpet, eagerly waiting for the next celebrity guest. It isn’t until the car door opens that the sounds from outside truly reach you: distant music from the stadium, the constant clicking and shuttering of thousands of cameras, and people.

Jermajesty and Randy step out of the car first, followed closely by Jaafar though not before he whispers a few more reassuring words into your ear.

“Eyes on me.”

“What?”

“When it gets overwhelming, just look at me.”

Like the true gentleman he is, he waits by the door and extends his hand to help you out of the car. Meanwhile, his brothers are already posing for photos in front of the backdrop, completely comfortable in all the chaos.

You, however, feel like your knees might give way beneath you. You place your hand in Jaafar’s and let him gently pull you out of the car, making sure you don’t trip (even though Jermajesty would have probably loved if you did, proving his prediction). The second you are out of the car and the first photographer spots you, the shouting grows impossibly louder.

“Jaafar!”

“Over here!”

“Jaafar, a picture with your girlfriend!”

“Can we get one together?”

“Look this way!”

To say you are overwhelmed is an understatement, your heart racing, but Jaafar makes sure to tightly secure your hand in his, leading you onto the carpet and in front of the backdrop. Lights flash in an instant, not allowing you to even get into position.

Jaafar’s hand slides to the small of your back naturally, allowing him to pull you against his side without obscuring your matching outfits. You can’t help but grin, his closeness automatically calming your nerves by each second. Both of you smile at the cameras, giving them time to get the perfect shot of you, giving them exactly what they came for.

“One without the sunglasses!”

You both immediately follow the request, taking off your sunglasses to give them unrestricted views of your faces. Jaafar gives you a playful pinch at the waist that catches you off guard, making you look up at him with a giggle, one hand resting on his chest. The cameras keep snapping photos of you, even when you stop paying them any attention and simply gaze at each other. Which is exactly what Jaafar had in mind: making you forget everything around you, focussing solely on him.

Later, this will turn out to be your favourite photo: the two of you looking at each other with unconditional affection, beaming smiles and a look that suggests you’re in a world of your own.

“Can we get a picture of just her?”

The request takes you completely by surprise, but before you can even react, Jaafar smiles proudly and steps aside to leave the spotlight to you without any hesitation. At first, you hold tight onto his hand, your eyes practically pleading with him to stay, but he gives you such an encouraging smile that you can’t help but go along with it.

Suddenly, you feel incredibly shy without him by your side, but the photographers are telling you exactly how they want you to pose and what to do. You give them what they want, and maybe even a little more, and realize you’re actually starting to enjoy it a little. Standing nearby, Jaafar looks incredibly proud as if he were witnessing something beautiful, something he had never seen before in his life and now cannot tear his eyes away from. He truly is your biggest supporter.

It doesn’t take long before Jaafar is back by your side, and the two of you move along the carpet as a unit, heading toward the far end where his brothers are already waiting. Both of them are looking at you with broad, knowing smiles, making you lower your head in embarrassment as you reach them.

“There they are!”

“The celebrities.”

“Don’t even star-”

“How was it, little Miss I’m-so-scared-I’ll-mess-it-up-but-end-up-stealing-everyone’s-spotlight-anyway?”, Randy interrupts, clearly enjoying himself, not letting the opportunity pass to tease you a little. All three of them knew you would do an amazing job. There was never any doubt about it.

“Why’s no one asking me?”, Jaafar says, rolling his eyes dramatically as he slips his hand from yours and flexes his fingers with an exaggerated pout. “Might need a new hand.”

Your eyes drop to his hand immediately. “Oh God. Did I squeeze too hard?”, you ask in alarm, wasting no time in taking his hand between both of yours and cupping it as if it were the most precious thing in the world. In a way, it was – like an anchor keeping you steady. “I didn’t mean to hurt you, baby.”

The concern on your face causes his teasing expression to break.

“I’m just playing with you, baby. It’s all good”, Jaafar laughs, flashing you one of his perfect smiles before he gently frees his hand from yours, placing it against your chin and tilting your face toward him. Then he presses a soft kiss to the corner of your lips.

“So.. are you guys going to pounce on each other, or can we go inside?”, Jermajesty asks in all seriousness, making you burst out laughing. Jaafar gestures for them to go ahead and you follow them. On the way to your seats, Jaafar interlocks your fingers again.

“You okay?”, he asks quietly.

“Yeah.”

As soon as you step out into the stands, it finally hits you where you are and what a special event this is. Who gets to say they attended the opening match of a World Cup and in the very country where they live, no less? The atmosphere is ecstatic, unlike anything you’ve ever experienced before. Thousands upon thousands of people are filling the stadium, flags waving, chants echoing.

Randy leads the way and finds your seats with ease. They are located in the main stand in a separate area reserved for special guests, so-called “Business-Seats”, allowing for a bit of privacy and security. It even has an exclusive lounge offering catering before, during, and after the match. Eventually, you find yourself in a seat between Jaafar and Jermajesty, with Randy on Jermajesty’s other side.

Your body is still overflowing with adrenaline from before, making it nearly impossible for you to sit completely still. You look around constantly, taking everything in: the massive screens, the field, the crowd. Everything feels entirely surreal.

You snap a few photos to look at later and maybe even post. Since your relationship is completely official now, you’re free to post whatever you want without having to worry that people might piece together who you were with, or where and when you were there. You don’t have to hide anymore and even pose for the boys’ selfies.

You notice Jaafar’s camera land on you, making you smile shyly. You lean against his shoulder to catch a glimpse of his phone and thus his snapshot.

“Delete that one”, you say immediately, feeling embarrassed about the way you look in it.

“No”, Jaafar replies, holding his phone out of reach so you can’t make a grab for it.

“Jaafar”, you whine, trying to reach it anyway.

“It’s cute.”

“It’s not!”

“It is! You look so excited.”

You roll your eyes, but you can’t stop smiling nevertheless.

“Any predictions?”, Jermajesty eventually asks, looking between all of you with an amused smile. “Winner gets to choose where we’re eating tonight. Losers are paying.”

“2:0”, Randy replies, sliding his sunglasses back over his eyes as the sun hits his face.

“3:0”, you state with no hesitation, feeling confident in your answer.

“3:1”, Jaafar immediately chimes in, looking at you with a playful sparkle in his eyes that tells you the challenge is on.

“I’m going with 4:1”, Jermajesty claims with an approving look at the line-up on his phone.

“In your dreams maybe”, you giggle. He places a hand over his chest, pretending to be offended.

“Wow. No faith in our team?”

“I’m just being realistic”, you respond with a sweet smile. Jermajesty opens his mouth to argue some more but is quickly shut down as music fills the arena and the lights dim. The opening ceremony begins shortly after, and the entire stadium seems to come alive. The field transforms into a celebration of football, culture, and everything that makes the World Cup such a massive event.

You all watch in awe, completely captivated.

At one point, the cameras begin scanning the VIP sections and the giant screens above the field show some of the celebrities attending the match: Tom Cruise, Leonardo DiCaprio, David Beckham. The crowd immediately reacts every time someone familiar appears.

You watch along with everyone else, but deep down, you can feel the nerves slowly creeping back in. Because if the camera is scanning the VIP section, what’s stopping it from landing on Jaafar? And if it lands on Jaafar, it will inevitably land on you.

Your hand unconsciously tightens around his for a moment, but thankfully, the camera moves on before you have to worry about being on the giant screens. A small sigh of relief escapes you.

You are not too keen on a full stadium of seventy thousand people to know you’re here.

“You okay?”, Jaafar asks again.

“Yeah.”

When the match finally begins, the atmosphere becomes even more intense. You quickly realize that all of you are much more invested in the game than you expected, leaning forward, screaming, complaining, cheering.

Even Jaafar, who had seemed so calm earlier, is completely caught up in the excitement. “Come on!”, he shouts, jumping slightly in his seat when the USA nearly scores, making you laugh. His excitement is adorable, warming your heart.

And just like that, the first half goes by faster than you expect. By halftime, the scoreboard shows exactly what you predicted: 3:0. You turn toward Jaafar with the biggest smug smile.

“I would like to remind everyone of my prediction”, you announce proudly. You lean back in your seat, completely satisfied. “I’d actually like to go home now and spend the rest of the evening basking in this victory.”

“Don’t be too confident, baby”, Jaafar winks at you. “It’s not over yet.”

The halftime entertainment begins, giving everyone a chance to relax before the second half, which will undoubtedly be just as exciting. You and Randy decide to make yourselves useful and head toward the lounge to grab food and drinks for everyone. Inside, the atmosphere is completely different from the stadium. Still busy, but much calmer. The lounge is bustling with a mix of guests – influencers, models, actors, athletes, and also people you’ve never seen before. Then again, plenty of them are probably thinking the exact same thing about you.

You gather everything you need and carefully balance the drinks and food as you make your way back to your seats alongside Randy, who’s carrying the other half. The second Jaafar sees you approaching, he’s already standing. Before you can protest, he’s taking half the things from your hands, preventing anything from falling.

He smiles one of his sweet smiles at you, before leaning down and pressing a kiss to your cheek once you sit down again. “Thank you for the fries.”

You laugh, knowing they are his favourite. “You’re welcome.”

Down on the field, you can see a few cheerleaders performing, otherwise the stands are relatively empty, which is not at all typical for American halftime shows. However, you realize too late that the camera operators are having some fun, moving through the stands to get people to kiss. You thought kiss cams were strictly an American football thing, but apparently, they’ve adopted the tradition for the World Cup, too. You freeze when you suddenly see your face on the giant screen in front of you, your eyes wide.

Except it’s not Jaafar who’s shown next to you, but Jermajesty. For a moment, nobody reacts. The entire situation is so absurd that your brain can’t even process it. You and Jermajesty simply stare at the screen in utter bewilderment.

Jermajesty immediately starts waving his hands frantically and making an X with his arms, trying to signal to the cameramen that they have made a mistake, but the damage is already done, a flush rising in your cheeks. Randy is doubled over with laughter, completely losing it, and Jaafar isn’t doing much better, struggling to compose himself.

“Unbelievable”, he mumbles through a fit of laughter. But then his eyes soften and he does something you don’t expect: He reaches over, placing one hand gently against your jaw. Before you can ask what he’s doing, he turns your face toward him and kisses you. In front of seventy thousand people.

A wave of cheers rises around you, louder than before. The kiss lasts no more than five seconds, but it’s long enough to make you forget the world around you and the embarrassment you feel. It’s only Jaafar and you in the biggest stadium in the world.

When he pulls away, his forehead almost touches yours and the smug smile on his face makes you laugh. You immediately hide your heated cheeks behind your hands, shaking your head at him as the camera moves on to its next victim.

“You know that’s going to be all over tabloids tomorrow, right?”, you say shyly, pinching the bridge of your nose. Jaafar’s smile only grows while Jermajesty and Randy are having the absolute time of their lives, barely containing their laughter. You try to block them out by scooting forward in your seat, turning your back a little more toward them.

“Probably”, Jaafar shrugs, settling back into his seat while draping one arm casually over the backrest behind you. “Next to all the pictures they took of us on the carpet.”

“Great”, you sigh while sinking into your seat, a smile tugging at the corner of your lips either way. “I can’t believe you actually just kissed me in front of the entire world.”

“Technically”, he says, holding up a finger. “I just wanted to make sure that everyone knows who you’re here with.”

Laughter bubbles out of you as he nods toward his brother, who now has the decency to look slightly offended by the entire situation. “I was an innocent bystander”, Jermajesty defends himself.

Jaafar shoots him a mock glare until you all burst out laughing at the same time, drawing puzzled glances from the people around you. Suddenly, your embarrassment vanishes and your heart returns to its normal rhythm.

Throughout the entire second half, Jaafar’s proximity is palpable, his touch never leaving you: his hand over the back of the seat, on your thigh or interlaced with yours.

The game picks right back up where it left off. The USA continues to dominate and despite Jaafar’s warning not to get too confident, your prediction remains safely intact. That is until Paraguay scores and the scoreboard destroys your prediction, showing a 3:1.

“Told you so”, Jaafar teases, dragging out the words in a sing-song voice, pinching your side which makes you squeal. You don’t want to give him the satisfaction of looking defeated, so you lightly push his shoulder. You try to ignore his further teasing close to your ear, but the smile on your face gives you away.

“I’m still in the game!”, Jermajesty proudly announces. The next moment, he clutches his head in frustration as the USA squanders another chance.

Even though you lost your little competition, you can’t tear your eyes away from the game, it’s just too much fun. Then, when the USA scores to make it 4:1 in the final seconds of overtime, you all leap from your seats and cheer. Jermajesty, of course, the loudest of all. Jaafar laughs beside you before wrapping his arms around you and briefly lifting you off your feet in celebration. You barely have time to react before he sets you back down, both of you laughing.

“Oh, he’s never letting this go”, Jaafar says, shaking his head.

“You’re going to be so sick of me!”, Jermajesty cheers loudly.

When the final whistle blows and the USA ultimately wins, the entire stadium erupts once more. Slowly, the stadium begins to empty, but the excitement remains. Since the traffic leaving the stadium is going to be insane, you decide to wait it out in the lounge. Which also happens to give you a temporary escape from Jermajesty’s endless chatter about how he perfectly predicted the game.

Jaafar introduces you to a few guests you recognize and plenty you don’t, but everyone is surprisingly welcoming. Every time Jaafar introduces you, hearing the word girlfriend leave his lips in a public setting makes your heart skip.

What surprises you most is that everyone is so friendly and warm. You had spent the entire day imagining judgment, whispers, people analysing every little thing about you. But instead, they smile at you or compliment your outfit or ask how you enjoyed the game. They make it feel like you belong.

At some point, while you’re talking with a group of guests on your own, you catch Jaafar watching you from across the room, admiring you. When you catch his eyes, he gives you the sweetest smile ever. One that says: ‘See? You’re okay. I’m so proud of you.’ The second he’s at your side again, he leaves a gentle kiss on your temple.

“You okay?”

“Yeah.”

About an hour after the final whistle, you’re finally sitting inside the car on your way home. The adrenaline is slowly fading, leaving behind a feeling of exhaustion. Your head rests against Jaafar’s shoulder as you watch the city lights pass by outside the window.

Occasionally, one of his brothers talks about the match or laughs about the kiss cam moment that will probably haunt Jermajesty forever, but other than that, there’s a comfortable silence.

Your mind is spinning, thinking back to everything you’ve experienced today, to every moment that scared you so much beforehand, but that you handled so well. Somewhere along the way, you stopped feeling like you were being introduced to the world, but more like you were being welcomed into it.

And Jaafar played the biggest role in making it such a pleasant experience for you.

You think about how your hand barely left Jaafar’s the entire day. Your hand moves without thinking, sliding down his biceps until your fingers find his. You intertwine them together on his lap.

“You okay?”, Jaafar asks quietly. You feel him press a kiss into your hair after taking in the familiar scent of you. The question makes you smile. Because of course he asks, even now.

The ride from the hotel hadn’t been long, but it had been carefully planned down to the minute. You’d stood for most of it inside the Sprinter van so your dress wouldn’t crease. Earlier, at the hotel suite, your stylists had worked quickly but precisely. Touching up your makeup, resetting your hair, before helping you step out of the elaborate Met Gala gown and into something entirely different for the night ahead.

Now, for the afterparty, you’re in a form-fitting black velvet dress with an off-the-shoulder neckline. The deep black fabric shimmers in the glow of the night, while a diamond necklace adorns your throat, catching sparks of light whenever you move. It’s elegant and timeless. With your choice of dress, you and your team tried to ensure a bit more comfort for the long night ahead while staying true to this year’s theme, “Fashion Is Art”.

The photographers are already calling your name again and again and again. Adrenaline surges through your every vein. It almost feels unreal how quickly you become the focus of the entire street, as if they’ve been waiting for this exact moment. Yet, just a few hours ago, they had ample opportunity to snap countless photos of you at the Met Gala already. Since you’ve changed into a different outfit, however, they are eager to capture just as many new shots of you.

You wave a little shyly at no one in particular and make your way across the red carpet. It’s quite short and makes everything feel less formal, but more immediate. Security lines both sides, creating a narrow corridor toward the entrance of the club. Behind you and in front of you, your own team and bodyguards follow close behind to ensure neither fans nor paparazzi swarm you.

Once inside the club, you take a deep breath. You haven’t been in the business very long, so every public appearance brings a mix of nerves and excitement with it. There’s a certain type of awareness that every step, every glace is being watched, captured, and discussed in real time. After all, the Met Gala is one of the biggest nights in the industry, and even here, at one of the many afterparties scattered across New York, it feels like you’re transported to a different world. One of pure glamour and shine.

Since you are still relatively new to the scene, you don’t know many of the other stars yet, and a part of you hopes tonight will change that. After all, that was half the purpose of these parties: socializing, making connections, seeing and being seen, putting down roots in an industry that still feels exciting and intimidating all at once.

Music greets you as you venture further inside, your team now free of their duty after safely escorting you in. The air is noticeably cooler than outside, scented faintly with perfume and champagne. The volume of the music is just right: loud enough to fill the room and give it life, yet not so overpowering that it drowns everything else out. Across the room, a DJ stands behind illuminated desks, and a stage has already been set up for the performances planned later in the evening. There are plenty of artists among the guests tonight, so someone is bound to end up on that stage.

You stand at the top of a short, sweeping staircase, giving you a perfect view of everything below. The afterparty has taken over what looks like the ballroom of some extravagant palace. Gold detailing adorns the cream-colored walls, curling in elaborate patterns around marble columns. Massive crystal chandeliers hang from the ceiling high above. Scattered around the dance floor are circular tables draped in white linens and decorated with small arrangements of white roses and candles. Some celebrities lounge in velvet chairs, chatting in small groups, while others move between tables.

Along one side of the room stretches a magnificent marble bar, illuminated from beneath with a soft golden light. The bartenders work in black suits and with effortless precision, pouring champagne and mixing cocktails. Waiters drift gracefully through the crowd carrying silver trays filled with drinks. Voices mingle into a pleasant hum that rises and falls.

You let your gaze drift over the sea of faces as you stand, anxiety tugging at your nerves.

You keep your expression composed, even as your pulse refuses to settle. This is one of the parts you’re still learning: how to walk into a room full of people who all seem to know each other and act like you naturally belong there too.

What if you spend the entire evening awkwardly standing at the bar, unable to strike up a conversation with anyone? What if no one is even interested in talking to you? These thoughts drift through your mind but are suddenly swept away the moment your eyes land on him.

Jaafar is standing and chatting with two men you can’t identify right now because their backs are turned to you. Or rather, he was chatting until he spotted you.

Because the second Jaafar’s eyes land on you, everything else simply disappears. He doesn’t hear another word being said, forgets whatever he has been saying. Forgets where he even is for a second, every coherent thought leaving his mind at once, only being occupied by you.

And you look –

God.

He knew you would change dresses, obviously. You teased him about it earlier, laughing when he tried to convince you to show him pictures or give him some sneak peek.

“No. It’s a surprise”, you’d insisted. “Besides, if you know exactly what I’m wearing, it’ll ruin the reveal.”

And what a reveal it was.

His gaze drifts over your dress longingly. The black velvet hugs your figure beautifully, elegant and timeless without trying too hard. The off-the-shoulder neckline frames your collarbones where he’d left kisses a thousand times before, the diamonds at your throat catching the light every time you move.

All of a sudden, Jaafar feels sixteen again. Not Jaafar Jackson, celebrity guest at one of the most exclusive parties in New York. Not Jaafar Jackson, part of the Jackson family, son to Jermaine Jackson, nephew to Michael Jackson. Just a man hopelessly in love with his girlfriend.

His eyes soften immediately, the corners of his mouth lifting before he can stop them. There is admiration there, but more than that, there is something helplessly affectionate. Because all he can think is: That’s my girl.

You had already looked like the most beautiful woman in the world in your Met Gala gown and he hadn’t thought you could top that. But, of course, you did. Jaafar feels as though he will be unable to think about anything else for a long time, either about you in this dress or about how he’s going to get you out of it. Depending on where his thoughts take him.

You can feel his heated gaze directly on your skin, even where it’s covered by fabric. Your whole body tingles and suddenly you aren’t nervous about the attention anymore, but about him. Deep down, you had secretly hoped for a reaction like this, but seeing it happen in real time stirs something in you, tightening your chest. You try to ignore the warmth rising from your neck to your face.

You have to control yourself. After all, you and Jaafar are in a secret relationship and the way you’re looking at each other right now doesn’t feel very secretive. It makes it way too obvious that there is so much more going on between the two of you.

On the other side, Jaafar is struggling to keep his very distracting thoughts at bay. No matter what he tries, he simply cannot tear his gaze away from you. But above all these thoughts, above everything, he just wants to hold your hand. Tell you how beautiful you are. He wants to kiss your forehead, make you laugh, hear about every nervous thought running through your head.

He wants to stand beside you openly.

The thought suddenly pains him, imagining what it would’ve been like if none of this had to be hidden. If you had walked the red carpet together earlier, stopping to give everyone the chance to snap photos of you. Not as two separate people who happen to be at the same event, but as a unit. He imagines how it would’ve felt like to have his hand resting against the small of your back while reports called both your names. How you would’ve shared stupid little smiles between interviews.

Jaafar wants to show you off to the world so badly. Instead, he had to spend the entire evening pretending not to know the woman he’d fallen asleep next to the night before. Pretending he didn’t sneak out of your hotel room in the early morning hours to get back to his own. Pretending your arrival times at the gala weren’t purposefully set thirty minutes apart to not raise suspicions. Pretending you didn’t put on a perfect charade during the entire event, even though there were glances that lasted half a second too long.

You entered different conversations, sat on different tables, far apart from each other. There was a careful, almost comical little wave you’d exchanged inside the museum, pretending to be nothing more than friendly colleagues.

Somehow, the two of you had pulled it off. No one knew that he’d slipped out of your room before sunrise. No one knew he’d almost broken his promise when he first spotted you on that carpet. No one knew that every time he’d looked across the museum and caught the tiniest glimpse of you, he’d had to physically stop himself from walking over.

Judging by the way you are looking at each other right now, smiling without meaning to, neither of you is doing a particularly good job of hiding how much more there is beneath the surface.

You’re fortunate that the afterparty has a strict no-professional-photography policy. No paparazzi, photographers or television crews are allowed inside for it is an exclusive event, meant only for the stars of the evening. It makes the atmosphere feel noticeably more relaxed. It doesn’t stop every guest from having a phone tucked away somewhere though, eager to capture memories for Instagram posts and stories before the night is over. A single photo in the wrong place at the wrong time could still spark rumours. So while you and Jaafar can afford to be a little less guarded than you were at the Met Gala itself, you still have to be careful. Lingering too close or disappearing together would be enough for someone to start asking questions. At least you’re no longer performing under the relentless glare of hundreds of professional cameras, and that alone makes it a bit easier to breathe, the pressure feeling not quite as intense.

The Met Gala is your first major Hollywood event and Jaafar can only imagine how overwhelming that has to feel. Which makes all of it so much harder because all he wants is to cross the room, take your hand, and ask if you’re doing okay. To introduce you to people as his girlfriend, make sure you aren’t standing alone. Instead of all this, he has to pretend you are just another guest.

At the same time, it was his first Met Gala too. Yes, he is used to public attention, but that doesn’t change the fact that there is so much you want to ask him. You want to spend the whole night talking about how he’s doing, what he’s experienced, and the new people he’s met. Instead of all this, you find yourself doing the exact opposite of what every instinct is telling you. You force yourself not to walk over. Or smile at him. You try your best not to make it obvious that, to you, he is the only person in the room.

“May I help you?” The warm voice beside you abruptly pulls you from your thoughts, causing you to break the invisible thread that stretched between you and Jaafar. You turn. When you realize who the voice belongs to, it takes your breath away, for standing before you, one hand casually extended toward the staircase, is none other than Michael B. Jordan. He smiles with an effortless warmth that immediately makes you feel more at ease.

“Looks like you got stuck at the top of the stairs.”

Your eyes widen ever so slightly, heat rushing to your cheeks. Has it really been that obvious?

“O-Oh”, you let out a nervous laugh. “Thanks. That’s.. really sweet of you.”

You groan internally, mentally slapping yourself for stammering. Fantastic. You’re talking to Michael B. Jordan and you’ve already forgotten how to form a complete sentence, too starstruck. He just chuckles, apparently finding your reaction more endearing than awkward.

“Don’t worry”, he says as you accept his hand. “First big event?”

You nod sheepishly while he guides you down the last few steps. “That obvious?”

“A little.”

You look at him with an embarrassed smile, letting go of his hand when you reach the bottom.

“I’m trying really hard not to look terrified”, you admit, smoothing down your dress in an attempt to calm your nerves.

His grin only grows, easy and reassuring, as he offers you his arm. “Come on. Nobody should spend a party standing by themselves.”

You hesitate for a brief moment before slipping your arm through his. The gesture is purely gentlemanly, a quiet way of making sure you don’t feel stranded in a room full of strangers. He leads you toward a lively group gathered near one of the cocktail tables, introducing you to his own co-star Hailee Steinfeld.

You immediately exchange introductions and compliments. Since Sinners is one of your – and Jaafar’s – absolute favourite movies, you feel starstruck once again. Hailee, on the other hand, admires you too, which feels incredibly surreal. What do you mean the Hailee Steinfeld thinks your acting is great and can’t wait to see you in more films?

There are a lot more people in the group, faces you recognize from posters, award shows or magazine covers. Michael effortlessly introduces you to everyone, making it sound as though you belong there just as much as everyone else and you are extremely grateful for it. He quickly catches a passing waiter and plucks two champagne flutes from the tray, offering one to you.

“For the nerves”, he says when you thank him, taking a sip and letting the drizzling liquid run down your throat. The conversation flows naturally after that. He has a way of asking questions that immediately puts people at ease, introducing you whenever someone new joins the circle, making sure you don’t feel awkward.

Every now and then someone asks about your latest project. Someone else compliments your dress, another person jokes that the real challenge isn’t the carpet but surviving the shoes. You meet so many different celebrities that you lose count: Zendaya, Pedro Pascal, Zayn Malik, Daisy Edgar-Jones, Simone Ashley and so many more. You never even dared dream you’d be in the same room as these people, let alone talk to them about fashion or your travel plans.

After a while, the group dissolves naturally, some of them already a bit tipsy. They disappear into the crowd with cheers and laughter, deciding to hit the dance floor, leaving you and Michael alone at the bar to treat yourselves to another drink. By now, you’ve completely lost track of time and have no idea whether you’ve been at the afterparty for one hour or four. Oddly enough, that feels like a victory. It means you are enjoying yourself, almost forgetting that something is missing.

Still, every so often, almost without realizing it, your eyes wander across the room, keeping an eye out for Jaafar. You saw him talking to Colman a few hours ago, or at least you think it has been hours ago, but since then, he’s vanished. The room has only grown busier as the night went on and finding one person in a room this crowded is nearly impossible. Unfortunately, you can’t go looking for him, nor can you make it too obvious that you’re scanning the room, as someone would surely ask who you’re looking for. Have you seen my secret boyfriend no one knows about? isn’t exactly a good conversation starter.

Because the music is quite loud near the dance floor, everyone instinctively leans closer whenever someone speaks and Michael is no exception. More than once, his voice brushes against your ear, warm enough that you can feel his breath before he straightens again. You find yourself doing the same, leaning toward him because there’s no other way to hear him over the bass. Every time you respond, he shifts in, closing the gap.

Occasionally, his hand brushes lightly against your elbow as he laughs at something you say. When he gestures toward something across the ballroom, his arm briefly crosses behind your back as he points. It’s not an embrace. It’s not even contact. Still, it lingers a second longer than necessary before he lets it fall away again as if proximity is simply the natural setting between you. Other times his hand rests on the bar near yours, not touching, not nothing either. Just a space that keeps shrinking. He makes you laugh easily, sometimes soft, sometimes full-on laughter.

At one point, he looks at you with something unreadable in his expression. It lingers for half a second too long before he smiles again, like it never happened. But surely, he isn’t flirting with you, right? He’s just like this. Charismatic. Attentive. Effortlessly good at making people feel seen. You’re reading far too much into it; that’s just how things work in this industry. You can’t exactly tell him that you’re taken either, so you simply let it be what it appears to be: friendly, comfortable. The effortless charisma he’s known for.

You don’t think anything of it. You don’t treat it like it means anything unusual.

But Jaafar does. Across the room, he notices every single time. He hates that he notices. He’s trying to stay composed, he really is. One of the producers beside him is telling a story that’s apparently hilarious because everyone around him bursts into laughter. Jaafar laughs too, half a second late. His attention keeps slipping, always back to you.

He can’t hear anything from here, but he doesn’t need to because he can see. He sees the way Michael leans in when you speak. The way you tilt your head slightly toward him in response. The way Michael’s focus doesn’t wander when other people join the circle. The way his eyes are practically glued to you when you laugh.

It hits Jaafar harder than he expects. He tells himself it’s nothing. That Michael is just being social. Warm. Charismatic in the way everyone talks about him. That’s all this is.

It’s perfectly innocent. Michael doesn’t know you’re together. Michael doesn’t see the love marks beneath the fabric of your dress. As far as he knows, you’re simply a beautiful actress attending her first major Hollywood event.

Of course he’s being welcoming. Of course he’s making sure you’re comfortable. Jaafar knows that and he should be grateful.

Instead, his jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. This is ridiculous he tells himself, exhaling quietly through his nose as he takes a sip of his drink.

He trusts you. None of this is inappropriate.

So why does every instinct in him scream that he should be standing where Michael is? Why does it bother him so much to watch someone else make you laugh?

Not because Michael is doing anything wrong but because Jaafar wishes he could. He wishes he could lean down and ask if you’re enjoying yourself. Or hand you a drink before someone else has the chance. Or rest his hand against the small of your back as he introduces you around the room, telling everyone you’re his girl.

Instead, he has to watch somebody else make you feel welcome and that stings far more than he wants to admit.

He doesn’t move, doesn’t approach you or do anything at all beside watch.

Jaafar loses track of time as he watches Michael touch you, make you laugh, and ensure you’re having a good time. All he knows is that he’s completely tuned out the party and the conversation around him. Inside, he’s waging a battle with himself, fighting hard against that sickening feeling in his chest, something that feels dangerously close to jealousy and is spreading through his body like poison.

Eventually, he has enough when he sees Michael briefly touch your face. His fingers hover near your cheek for a second longer than necessary as he finishes. Apparently, he’s fixing something, maybe your lipstick. Whatever it is, it pushes Jaafar over the edge. Not the touch itself, but the comfort behind it. He sets his glass down on a table with a bit too much force, excuses himself from the conversation, and walks purposefully toward the two of you at the bar.

Jaafar isn’t the jealous type. That is the problem. He doesn’t know what to do with it when it comes. Doesn’t like it one bit and doesn’t trust it either. And worst of all, he doesn’t think he has the right to even feel it when you are standing there with your life still fully your own.

It doesn’t stop it from happening anyway.

“Hey, hope I’m not interrupting”, Jaafar says, stepping into your conversation. His hand moves toward your lower back almost instinctively, though he manages to control the impulse at the last moment. “I haven’t really seen you properly all evening”, he greets you, a blatant lie, though the alcohol in his system has made him a bit bolder; on any other day, he would have blushed in embarrassment. There’s a slight edge of heat behind his words that he doesn’t quite manage to bury.

You, on the other hand, hadn’t expected Jaafar to approach you so openly at all, but your heart is clearly delighted, practically leaping out of your chest. You can finally study him up close – his beautiful eyes, his skin glowing in the warm light of the chandeliers, his cheeks slightly flushed, likely from the heat and the drinks. His suit fits perfectly, accentuating his torso in all the right places, so much so that you have to fight the urge to tear it right off him and show everyone who he belongs to.

You and Jaafar exchange exactly the kind of greeting two co-stars might. A warm smile. A brief hug. Nothing unusual though both of you are holding back hard.

Michael doesn’t react like he’s been displaced. If anything, he adjusts seamlessly, turning toward Jaafar with the same ease he’s shown everyone all night. “Hey, man”, he says, already smiling. “Good to see you.”

“You too.” Their handshake turns into easy conversation almost immediately. Jaafar positions himself just slightly closer to you than necessary, not blocking or touching but it changes the space immediately. Like a line has been drawn, a wall that cannot be crossed.

“You look incredible”, Jaafar suddenly tells you all politely. You almost choke on your drink.

“So do you.”

“Thank you.” That’s it. Very professional, friendly, not too over the top. No one would ever guess that sixteen hours earlier he’d been kissing you goodbye in a hotel room.

Standing beside each other after being apart all day and evening is torture in the best and worst way. You can smell his cologne again. Feel the warmth radiating from his body. But you’re not allowed to touch him or do anything about the burning feeling in your lower stomach.

Michael continues talking beside you both, smoothly adding Jaafar into the conversation like nothing has changed at all. In fact, he keeps getting extremely close to you, completely ignoring the boundary Jaafar is trying to draw, acting as if it isn’t even there. It’s really starting to get under Jaafar’s skin now, the way Michael’s attention keeps returning to you, the way you don’t seem to notice, or maybe you do and simply don’t read it the way he does.

But how can Michael be so oblivious? Doesn’t he notice the daggers Jaafar is shooting at him? It doesn’t help that you barely interact with Jaafar. Not coldly or anything, just not at all. He isn’t even sure anymore whether you’re ignoring him on purpose because of his behaviour or just putting on an act to keep up the façade that Jaafar almost broke down with his rash act. Jaafar’s jaw clenches; he feels like he’s about to explode if he doesn't remove himself from the conversation.

He doesn’t like how all of this makes him feel.

That’s why he excuses himself from the conversation and slips away, leaving you speechless. Just a casual exit for everyone else, delivered with the kind of calm that makes it unquestionable, nothing wrong with it, just a celebrity moving on to other conversations. But you know him and you realize right away that something is wrong. Your heart, which was already racing because he’d been so close to you, finally, is beating even faster now.

Jaafar is halfway through the crowd, weaving past people without stopping. His shoulders are tense in a way you recognize too well now that you’re looking for it. Something in your chest tightens.

“I’ll be right back”, you say quickly, even though no one is really asking you anything.

Michael glances at you. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah”, you lie automatically, already stepping away from the bar. “Just.. need to freshen up. Sorry.”

You’re already moving and don’t care to finish your sentence, your only goal being to find Jaafar. You weave through the crowd, keeping an eye out for him. Finally, you see him walking up the stairs that lead to the exit and the restrooms. You move quickly, careful not to draw too much attention to yourself. In all honesty, no one cares about you. Everyone is preoccupied with their own problems.

You walk past familiar and unfamiliar faces, and, more or less unsurprisingly, no one stops you. You follow Jaafar up the stairs and watch as he moves away from the main floor, toward the quieter edges of the venue where the noise dulls.

You follow at a distance, stopping when you spot him standing along the side balcony that overlooks the ballroom below, half hidden behind marble columns and heavy velvet curtains. His hands rest across the railing, head slightly bowed as he looks down at the party beneath him. If you didn’t know better, you’d imagine he was talking to himself. The tension in his shoulders gives him away.

You glance around quickly to ensure no one has followed you up here and you are alone before approaching him. His head snaps up immediately once he hears your heels softly click against the marble. For a split second, relief washes over his face, but it is quickly overshadowed by something sharper.

“Why did you follow me?”, he says quickly, voice low but firm. “Someone could see us.”

You both know that that isn’t really the problem right now. Besides, no one can see you up here anyway. The balcony is quiet except for the music bleeding up from the ballroom below. Tall columns and heavy curtains wrap the space in shadow, hiding anyone standing near the railing.

You stop a few steps away from him, heart still racing.

“You left”, you say simply.

A beat. Several more until you realize he won’t answer.

“Jaafar.”

“What?”, he snaps, straightening his posture to retreat even more into the shadows. He apparently did not expect how harsh the words would sound coming from him, which is why he immediately breaks eye contact.

At first, you don’t even know what to say. The alcohol in your system doesn’t make thinking any easier, even though you haven’t had that much and are just slightly tipsy. You hate that you don’t dare step any closer to him, for fear that someone might see you. Right now, it could still be dismissed as a purely private conversation between co-stars. But that could change in the split of a second. You absolutely loathe everything about it.

“Did I do something wrong?”, you ask quietly, unsure. His eyes immediately find yours again, staying on you this time.

“No”, he says way too quickly, too harshly. Then quieter, almost frustrated with himself more than anything else: “No. You didn’t.”

Jaafar hates himself so much for this right now. How did he manage to make you think it’s your fault, when it’s crystal clear that the problem lies with him and his stupid ego, which apparently can’t stand it when another man talks to you?

“Then why are you looking at me like that?”

His voice drops even lower. “Like what?”

“Like you’re mad at me.”

“I’m not mad at you”, he states, but it doesn’t sound very convincing. You finally bring up the courage to step closer to him, closing the gap between your two bodies that was too much to bear for this long. You can’t stand it when something is obviously wrong and you don’t know what it is.

“Then what are you?”, you inquire and your question makes him look away immediately, down to where the party is still in full power. It’s a question he can’t answer cleanly because the truth is simple and infuriating: He is jealous. And he hates that he is.

Jaafar exhales slowly through his nose as if that would help him reset. “I trust you”, he then starts quietly, like it costs him something to say it out loud. It’s obvious that he would love nothing more than to vanish right now. He feels incredibly uncomfortable with the situation and, above all, with his own feelings. He knows he has no right to these feelings. His gaze lingers somewhere over your shoulder, not being able to meet your eyes. The confidence he’d worn so effortlessly downstairs is gone now, stripped away until only the vulnerable man beneath it remains.

You can practically see the battle he’s fighting with himself. He’s embarrassed. By none other than himself.

Jealousy is foreign to him, an emotion that feels ugly and disgusting the moment he recognized it. For a few fleeting seconds downstairs, it had felt justified. Now, standing here in front of you, all he wants is for it to disappear. He hates that he’d let it get this far. Hates even more that he’d walked away instead of simply trusting what he already knew.

You watch him in silence, trying to understand where he’s going with this.

“But I don’t trust..” He stops, jaw flexing once. “Others.”

His words hang between you for a second. You’re taken back a bit at first until the realization hits you, every piece clicking into its rightful place. Your expression visibly softens. You lower your head for a moment, biting your lower lip in a hopeless attempt to hide the smile threatening to spread across your face. So you weren’t imagining it after all.

You glance back up at him, amusement behind your eyes.

“Are you..”, you ask slowly, drawing the word out just enough to make him squirm, “.. jealous?”

Once the word leaves your mouth, he visibly tenses in front of you, his eyes squeezing shut for a second. His only answer is a defeated groan. A laugh escapes you before you can stop it.

“Oh my god. You’re actually jealous”, you chuckle, looking at him as though you’ve just uncovered the sweetest secret imaginable. Jaafar, on the other hand, looks like he’d rather the marble floor swallow him whole.

“I don’t like this feeling”, he finally admits, nervously playing with a ring on his finger. It gives him something to focus on besides the embarrassment creeping across his face. He almost looks like a little boy all of a sudden. A little boy who’s been caught doing something he isn’t proud of, already bracing himself for impact even though you haven’t even said anything yet.

His shoulders lift slightly with a controlled inhale. With his voice even heavier, he then says: “I can’t do it though.”

You blink. “Can’t do what?”

“This”, he replies, gesturing vaguely back toward the room below. “Standing there pretending it doesn’t bother me. Because it does. It really really does.”

He’s met with silence from your side.

“What exactly is bothering you?”, you ask gently. You already know the answer, or part of it, but you want to hear him say it. Want to understand what has him looking so unlike himself. And you would be lying if you said it didn’t make you feel a little good about yourself.

“It’s not about him”, he says immediately, though the words come out faster than intended. He runs a hand through his hair, looking away for a second again. Then back to you.

“It’s just..”, he starts not knowing how to form the sentence to convey what he feels. “I don’t like watching you like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like I’m not the person you’re with. Like you’re not my girl”, he states matter-of-factly. You’re actually stunned by this, his words leaving you speechless. A dull ache settles somewhere beneath your ribs. Because that’s never what you wanted him to feel. That he thought he isn’t the only man you care about. That he isn’t the man you desperately want to be with, day and night. Not then, not now, not ever.

Jaafar lets out a small, humourless breath.

“I know it’s stupid”, he adds quickly. “I know. I just- I can’t handle it.”

He stops himself then, shaking his head like he’s so disappointed in himself. The noise of the party feels very far away now. You take a small step closer without thinking.

“It’s not stupid”, you insist, lifting your hand to cup his cheek. Your thumb brushes gently across his skin.

“It is”, he counters immediately, averting his gaze which turns out to be much more difficult now that you are so much closer to him. “I trust you. I know you didn’t do anything wrong. He didn’t either.”

You tip his chin lightly, wanting him to look at you and he obeys.

“Watching someone else make you laugh.. Watching someone else get to stand next to you..”, he closes his eyes before forcing himself to continue. “I hated it. I hate that I’ve spent six hours trying not to stare at my own girlfriend. I hated that I wanted to be in his place.”

Your heart aches, not because he’s jealous but because he genuinely believes he’s wrong for feeling it when you clearly felt like Michael B. Jordan was, in fact, flirting with you.

“But it is your place”, you finally encourage him with a gentle smile. “Right here, with me. You know that, don’t you?”

Your other hand comes to rest lightly against his chest, directly over his heart. You glance toward the ballroom below, where music and laughter continue as though your world hasn’t temporarily stopped.

As his only answer, Jaafar gives a small shrug before reaching for your hand resting against his chest, threading his fingers through yours. “I was being pretty ridiculous”, he admits.

“You really weren’t. If anything..”, you say with a teasing grin spreading across your face. “I found it incredibly cute.”

His brows knit together in confusion immediately as if he’s personally offended by the word. He genuinely doesn’t understand it. To him, jealousy feels ugly and irrational. Something he should’ve had better control over. If he could’ve reached inside his chest and ripped the disgusting feeling out altogether, he would’ve done it without hesitation.

“I wish they all knew”, you sigh then, your expression softening as your eyes drift back toward the ballroom below. “If they did, I would’ve stood next to you on the carpet. I would’ve introduced you as my man every chance I got. I met so many amazing people today, but do you know whose face I kept looking for?”

You don’t wait for him to answer because the answer is, in fact, pretty obvious.

“Yours, Jaafar. Only yours”, you say with full certainty in your voice, smiling to yourself. “You’re the man I wake up thinking about and the one I spend an entire evening searching for in a room full of the most famous people in the world.”

From the way he looks at you, eyes only flickering across your face, you can tell that there’s still that tiny flicker of doubt lingering beneath. So you decide to use your last resource, your strongest weapon.

“What are you doing?”, he asks, the words dissolving into a laugh as you pepper his face in featherlight kisses, the sound like music to your ears. You honestly don’t even care anymore if someone sees you right now. Let them see. Let them see how much you love this man.

“Showing you how much I love you”, you giggle, continuing as every kiss gets him smiling so widely he can’t hide it anymore. “And making up for all the kisses I couldn’t give you downstairs.” You place a kiss on his cheek, the corner of his mouth, the tip of his nose, his forehead, everywhere you can reach.

His smile is small and shy, but relieved. His cheeks are flushed pink. “You’re making this so difficult”, he murmurs when you finally stop, but you are still standing incredibly close, pushing him further into the shadows with your hands on his suit jacket, smoothing the lapels.

Innocently, you tilt your head. “Making what difficult?”

He studies you for a long moment, completely deadpan. “Not kissing you.”

A grin spreads across your face. “I’ve been kissing you this whole time, so what’s stopping you?”

Before you can tease him any further, he gently hooks a finger beneath your chin and closes the remaining distance. The kiss is slow at first, almost hesitant, as though he’s making up for every time he’d wanted to reach for you that evening but couldn’t. Instantly, you melt into him. What started innocently quickly turns into something more intense. His hand grips your waist firmly, allowing him to pull you even closer until you are pressed flush against his chest.

“You’re my girl”, he breathes against your lips in between kisses, making it sound like a prayer.

“I’m your girl”, you reply breathlessly, a soft giggle escaping you when Jaafar slides both hands around your waist. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, placing gentle kisses there while breathing in your scent, your expensive perfume mingling with the fragrance that’s unmistakably yours.

You arch your back instinctively, a quiet laugh leaving your lips as the sensation tickles. Between the champagne still lingering in your system and the overwhelming relief of finally having him this close again, your head feels wonderfully light.

You’d love nothing more than to stay like this, kissing him until the break of dawn, – or until someone finally catches you in this scandalous position and tells the whole world about it – but reality catches up with you all too quickly. Reluctantly, you place both hands against Jaafar’s chest and gently ease him back, only far enough for his forehead to rest against yours.

“How about you meet your girl in her hotel room in an hour?”, you suggest with a reluctant smile and the tips of his ears immediately turn pink as he nods a little too eagerly. He looks utterly lovestruck right now: His tie sits slightly crooked around his neck, the collar of his shirt is crumpled from your wandering hands, his lips are plush and tinged pink from your kisses, and one stubborn curl has fallen across his forehead.

“Can’t wait”, he says, smiling in a way that makes your heart ache. Leaving him here is far more difficult than you’d expected. Still, the promise of spending the rest of the night and the early hours of the morning with him makes it somewhat bearable.